


The First Language

by Midlifecrisis



Category: SKAM (Norway)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Evak AU, Love, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Piano, Touch-Starved, visual impairments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23915653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Midlifecrisis/pseuds/Midlifecrisis
Summary: “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.”Margaret Atwood,
Relationships: Even Bech Næsheim/Isak Valtersen
Comments: 78
Kudos: 138





	1. Chapter 1

I picked up the empty coffee cup in my fingertips, taking it to the kitchen, carefully washing it and putting it neatly in its place. I felt round the surfaces to make sure everything was tidy and returned the twelve steps to the living room – not that I counted them anymore. I knew everything else was tidy. It always was. It had to be. I can only be content when everything is in its place. Rogue cushions and misplaced glasses are an accident waiting to happen. When I first moved in here, Mama had tried to tell me that I should use plastic instead,

“You can get some very stylish plastic glasses and mugs.”

“Mama, I’m not a child.”

“No, I know but they are really lovely – for adults.”

“Mama!”

“And they are safer. They don’t smash if you – if they get knocked over or break.”

“Mama. Please stop. I’m a grown man. They just don’t feel right. Ok? They are the wrong weight and the wrong balance, and they make coffee or wine or even beer taste awful.”

I had felt her face change. I remember reaching over and holding out my palm, like when I was a child. She rested her palm on top of mine. Her skin was rougher than it used to be, but just as warm and just as real. If I had known at the time, I suppose I would have held on for longer. Hindsight can be a bitch.

“Mama. It’s ok. I’ll be fine.”

“But. But, Oh Isak, you’ve never lived alone.”

“No, but the flatshare helped me learn to be more independent. And now that you have Jens and don’t need me anymore, it’s time. I’m 25, I want to be on my own. Prove I can do it.” I remember fake pouting, trying to show her that it was ok.

“Oh baby, I know you can do it. You’ve always been so strong.”

She reached up and stroked my cheek. God, I miss her touch.

My watch said 17:37. The appointment was seven minutes late. I moved to the piano and checked that the beginner’s book and the chocolates were in place. Most new learners needed a sugary bribe to bring them back week after week. I wasn’t sure how old this new pupil was, his Papa had made the appointment, but, well, sweets never go wrong, even with the odd teenager that I have taught.

I realised that I had better check that I hadn’t made a mistake. I opened up my laptop and confirmed the appointment booking again, just in case. Nope – he was meant to be here at 17:30. 

“What’s the time?” I asked.

“The time is 17:46.” 

I don’t even notice the fake dulcet tones of the female robotic voice anymore. At first it annoyed me, and I thought of changing it to the male voice, but, well, it’s rather pathetic to get annoyed at a machine. Corntana, Alexa and any others, it’s not their fault. Seemed petty.

I supposed it was it going to be a no show. It’s wasn’t a huge problem income wise, teaching has always been just my evening job, more of a hobby, to keep my hand in. My day job is well enough paid, but I hate having my time wasted, especially after rushing home early for the appointment. I could have stayed longer and finished that edit.

At 18:00 I gave up and prepared dinner. I have always loved the ritual of cooking, but there was leftover pasta from the previous night, so it was only a reheat job. As the smell of basil and salty fish rose from the pot, I sniffed and smiled. I have always reveled in flavour-some food, so much so that I sometimes wonder if it is the smell that I actually like more. Smell can be so evocative: cinnamon at Christmas, fresh cut grass in summer, L'air du Temps from my Mama.

I had laid out my dining table as usual, my heavy silver cutlery, fine crockery and my favourite soft linen napkins from a visit to Vienna. I like quality objects. They feel richer to hold, as well as safer and more secure. I decide on a glass of my favourite chilled crisp white wine which I poured into the short-stemmed goblets, a housewarming gift from Jonas all those years ago. They are cut crystal so balance beautifully in your hand. I had no sooner lifted the fork to my mouth, inhaling the fragrant steam, when the buzzer unpleasantly interrupted my meal. It was a horrible, jarring rattle. Sighing, I replaced the forkful of uneaten food, and headed to the hallway.

“Hello?”

“Yes, hello? Hello?” A voice on the other side mumbled, certainly out of breath and face probably covered by a scarf.

“Hello?” I tried again.

“Shit, fuck, god, damn I’m so fucking sorry. Wait a minute.” The voice becomes clearer, less impeded by wool, “Sorry again. I’m here for the piano lesson.”

Nice way to speak in front of your child.

“I know I’m five minutes late but, oh its ok, someone is coming. I’ll just follow them in and come in and up.”

“Wait, I’m not, you’re not just…”

But the intercom went dead and the man and his son or whoever, were clearly on their way up. I stood for a minute to try work out my next move. I clearly couldn’t let them in and teach his son’s lesson. They had missed the correct time. However, as it was the first lesson, I decided to give him a break and be generous. They could begin next week instead. No charge.

The door was thumped so loudly it made me jump.

As I opened the door, I fixed a polite smile on my face. But I was hit by a smell. It billowed through the open door before anything else could be said. I stopped and let it waft over me. It was a mixture of many things: snow and cold, perspiration, something softly spicy like sandalwood and an intense blast of honey and lemon. It wasn’t unpleasant, the opposite in fact. Then there was the sound of a crunch and a swallow.

“I’m so sorry I’m late.” He almost shouted, “I should have known better than to think I could have been organised by 18:30. I had to come straight from work, and I missed the tram and then I forgot to note down your address. I had to get off a stop early to go to an ATM as I wasn’t sure if you had Vipps… well, I’m not too late. Am I?”

His voice was deeper than I had expected, but also a little nasal, he must have a cold, I thought, hence the honey and lemon lozenge.

“You’re over one hour late for your son Even’s piano lesson.”

There is a silence that I couldn’t read.

“Shit. I mean, sorry, I mean I am on my own. I don’t have a son. I’m Even, the appointment is for me.”

I had no idea what to say.

“Oh, I see. I don’t think I’ve ever had an adult learner before.”

Why was I talking? Why was I starting a conversation? Make arrangements for next week, Isak, and move him on his way.

“And you’re over an hour late. Your appointment was at 17:30.”

I heard a deep sigh and then the rumpus of a bag been opened and lots of things being moved around.

“Here. Could you hold this.”

I couldn’t see what he was holding out or where it was. I must have looked confused because the noise stopped, and I could feel him looking at me.

“Are you blind?”

“Yes. It’s on my profile as well as on the booking form. Is there a problem?” I tried not to sound defensive.

“With you being blind? No. God no. Ah got it.” There was the sound of a book being rustled through. “I didn’t really read all the information. It was a spur of the moment thing – booking the lesson. Something a friend said. I’m kind of an act now think later guy.”

He groaned.

“Yup, I’ve written 17:30 in my diary. I guess I should have checked it. I just got 18:30 in my head somehow.”

“You still have a paper diary?”

“I don’t trust technology.”

I snorted, “How’s that working out for you.”

There was a stillness again and I wondered if I had said something wrong. Then he gave a small, delightfully deep chuckle.

“Yes. I am a mess. A total disaster. I am terribly sorry for wasting your time, Mr…” he paused, checking his diary I supposed, “Valtersen. I will leave you to what smells like a totally delicious dinner and be on my way.”

And with that he was gone, down the corridor, mumbling to himself and stomping noisily, swishing clothes and bags in his wake.

I have no idea what possessed me, but it had been the longest and undoubtedly most interesting conversation that I had had all day, so for some reason I shouted after him,

“Erm. Have you eaten? It’s only leftovers, but there’s plenty.”

The footsteps stopped and then started again, this time heading towards me.

“Seriously, you would feed me. This crazy man at your door.”

I laughed easily, “You’re just a bit disorganised, not crazy.”

“Nope that’s where you’re wrong. I have the certificate to prove it and everything.”

I must have looked baffled, because he stopped moving, stopped talking and said,

“I’m sorry. Can we start again?”

I held out my hand formally and smiled.

“Hello, I’m Isak Valtersen. Music tech by day, piano teacher by night.”

He grasped my hand, his hand was larger than mine, a strong grip and a little hot and sweaty.

“Hello. Pleased to meet you. I am Even Bech Næsheim - disorganised disaster by day, disorganised disaster by night.”

I laughed, I was enjoying myself. He was still holding my hand.

“And I would be delighted to stay for dinner.”

I opened the door fully, and Even Bech Næsheim waltzed passed me, into the hall and into my life.


	2. Chapter 2

I began to doubt myself almost immediately. Even Bech Næsheim had already walked through to my living room. What the hell was I doing? Why was I doing it? I didn’t even know this guy.

I had to ask him to go back and hang his jacket up rather than throwing it over the back of the chair, and as he had left his shoes scattered on the floor, I had to point out their shelf to him. But he had followed my instructions easily and everything was in its place as we sat down to eat. I tried to calm myself down. Perhaps it would all be ok?

Dinner itself was a relatively quiet affair. I wasn’t used to eating with anyone else and I wasn’t sure how to begin the conversation. New relationships can be hard without the benefits of reading body language and the other visual clues that humans give off. I wasn’t even sure why I had invited him in the first place. But Even seemed quite content to eat without much conversation. Not that it was completely silent, he was a noisy eater. He clinked his fork on his teeth and scratching the plate with his knife to scrape up the last pieces of sauce. The sounds of his mouth were hard to avoid, even though he chewed with his lips closed, thank goodness. 

Even refused wine, as he said he had a low tolerance, but happily ate seconds of the pasta. I have to admit that the food was tasty. It’s still one of my favourite dishes.

I heard the sound of his cutlery being placed on his plate, and his chair being pushed back as he sighed. I had finished quite some time ago.

“That was amazing. Thank you so much for the invitation. Did you do all that yourself? You are an excellent cook.”

“Thank you. I find that making my own pesto is more aromatic than the shop bought variety, and although it doesn’t really keep well and you have to make it from scratch every time, with fresh basil, it’s worth it. I toast my own pine nuts.” 

What? ‘I toast my own pine nuts’! Oh my god! I sounded like a moron. It had been such a long time and I didn’t know what I was meant to say. For some reason, he didn’t seem to mind.

“I didn’t have anything planned for dinner tonight, anyway. I probably would have ended up a with a mid-week takeaway. Pretty tragic eh? Takeaways should only really be for the weekend.”

“I don’t eat takeaway.” Ok, now I was becoming just obnoxious. 

“You don’t? Why not?” He asked, stunned.

“I prefer to cook. To know what I’m eating.” 

It seemed I had happily jumped from being a moron, into arrogant, through obnoxious and straight into judgemental. I sounded like an asshole. Why was I still talking? Why was he still listening?

“But don’t you ever just think, ‘Fuck it! Tonight, I’m going to be lazy and eat a kebab’.” 

He breathed out a small laugh and I could hear him stretch out. His shoulder cracked.

“I don’t think I have. Not since high school anyway, and that was… what, more than fifteen years ago now.”

“Fift…fifteen? You’ve not had takeaway in fifteen years?”

“I make my own pizza with fresh mozzarella and I don’t think I could stomach a kebab. The shops smell awful when you walk past them.” 

I clamped my lips together. What was I saying? He obviously liked takeaways and I was criticising them as if I was a chef at a Michelin starred restaurant. Yup. Asshole.

“So, you always cook?

“No. I enjoy eating out. Just in restaurants where you sit down and eat.” Judgemental, arrogant, obnoxious asshole. 

But for some reason he just kept talking and listening, 

“Where do you like to go? Do you go alone, or with anyone?”

It was becoming awkward. I didn’t like how I sounded as I answered his questions, but I didn’t know what to do, how to reverse the direction. 

“Is this an interview? You ask a lot of questions.” I snapped.

He didn’t answer. 

Without him saying anything I couldn’t judge how he had reacted to my rudeness. I didn’t know what to say. I took a sip of wine, awkwardly waiting, expecting him to make an excuse and leave.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude.” He apologised gently.

Suddenly all the tension and worry and panic in me just exploded. 

“No.” I slammed my hands on the table, and he jumped and gasped. 

“No. I said again loudly then stopped, stumbling over my words. “What I mean is I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…” I was still almost shouting. I stopped and sighed.

“What?” he asked directly to me, his voice softer and lower than it had been before.

I took in a large breath and tried to explain,

“I invited you for dinner and then I spoke to you rudely. I sounded like an asshole. An arrogant, judgemental asshole at that. And I kept talking. And then I couldn’t stop and…”

And just like that he chuckled, a low, throaty, chuckle. He leaned forward onto the table and put his hand next to mine, not touching. I could feel his heat, but not his skin. I could smell his sandalwood cologne, but the honey and lemon had completely gone, as had the smell of outside. And then before I could react, he pulled his hand away, hummed and took a sip of his sparkling water and wiped his mouth.

“Well, to even it up, how about you ask me something? Interview Even Bech Næsheim.”

He leaned away from the table again, taking the rest of his heat and his fragrance with him.

I took a breath to steady myself and have a think. He was trying to be friendly and it was the least I could do to attempt the same. Even if I failed.

“Ok. Why do you want to learn the piano?”

“I turn thirty-eight next month, and I suddenly realised that I had never really stuck at anything, learned anything from scratch. I mean I can draw, but that’s just a hobby. I messed around on the guitar as a teenager, but that was just to impress the girls and guys. I guess I struggle with my concentration. My ‘career’ isn’t that at all, I’m just a manager in a coffee shop – and I’m only the manager really because a thirty-seven, nearly thirty-eight, year old barista is just embarrassing. I decided on piano and looked you up online. I always do alphabet searches Z to A, and there you were! And here I am!”

“Well I can’t say that you don’t answer when asked. That was pretty thorough.” I smiled.

“Can I ask you something else now?” he asked easily

“Is it the blindness question?”

“The blindness question?”

“Yeah. Or rather the blindness questions. You know the kind of thing… How long have you been blind? Can you read braille? How did you sit exams? How do you watch TV? How many fingers am I holding up?”

I was starting to enjoy myself. This was becoming easier. I hoped he could tell.

He chuckled, “How many fingers am I holding up?” 

I kept my face neutral and when I didn’t answer he added with a small voice, 

“I’m sorry. That was rude. I shouldn’t have…”

“Two.”

“Pardon?

“Two. Two fingers.” I said with confidence.

“How did you know?” He was stunned.

“When you are blind, your other senses become heightened. I could hear you holding up two fingers.”

I heard him gasp. “You could 'hear' two fingers.”

I paused for as long as I could and then burst out laughing, 

“No, you idiot. It was a guess.”

He returned my laughter, “Asshole indeed.” He muttered, and lightly punched my arm, leaving a shadow. 

“But I wasn’t going to ask you a blindness question. Smart-ass. You side-tracked me.”

“Oh. What is it then?” I asked.

“I just wondered how long you had played the piano for?” his voice sounded different, more delicate in some way.

“Is this you checking up on me to see if I’ll be any good as a teacher?”

“Well, I am paying a fortune for your skills.” He was back to his jokey tone.

I decided to be as honest as I could, at least with the facts.

“I’ve played for as long as I can remember. My Mama taught me.” I pushed down the memory. “I was not born blind. I started having difficulties with my eyesight in my early teens and was diagnosed with a genetic condition that would result in nearly a full visual impairment. So, I changed schools, learned Braille, but kept playing the piano. Reading Braille, especially Braille music took ages. It is very difficult, especially at the start. But I play a lot by ear anyway. I was never going to be a concert pianist. It was enough. By fifteen I was completely blind. I can see faint differences in light and dark, but that is all.”

There was another silence and I took a long drink of my wine, which emptied the glass. He didn’t say anything, but I thought I could sense him looking at me.

“It’s getting late, I’d better tidy up. You probably need to go.” I thought I meant it when I said it but when he offered to help, I realised I didn’t actually mean it at all.

I cleared the table as he watched on. When he asked what he could do I suggested he wash and I dry, as I would know where to put things away to. He ran the hot water in the sink, and I could hear him swirl the bubbles. 

He was silent, thoughtful. 

As I put away the last pot, he stepped close enough for me to smell him again. The spicey smell from before remained but had been joined by the aromas of my pesto on his breath.

“It has been a really lovely evening, actually, a really lovely evening.” He sounded incredibly sincere, “But I think I should go now.” He stepped back.

“Oh, of course.” I answered, trying not to sound too disappointed. “What time to you want to make the appointment for next week.”

“Would 19:00 be terribly inconvenient for you? I have a feeling that 18:30 is a little optimistic.”

“Not at all. Just don’t forget to write it in your diary – and then look at your diary.”

He snorted. I began walking towards the door and he followed me. It took him a very long time to put on his shoes and jacket and wrap his bag strap over his shoulder, but eventually he seemed ready. I felt inordinately awkward. Again, I was more frustrated than I had been in a long time by not being able to visually read the situation.

“Thank you again, Isak, for a really lovely, and surprising, dinner.”

I could sense him close to me in the small hallway, just a few centimetres taller. He was loitering. 

“It was nice to meet you, Even…” and I positioned my hand, in the same way as we had introduced ourselves.

He took my offer, but surprised me by using both his hands, completely covering my own and holding on tight. The atmosphere became heavy, like when the gravity is turned up on a TV spaceship. I panicked. 

“19:00 then. 19:00. I’ll see you for your lesson next Wednesday, at 19:00.” I repeated like a parrot. An idiotic parrot.

Whatever the atmosphere had been, it was fractured, and he let go. I opened the door as he slipped past.

“Goodnight, Even.” I tried to sound as calm as I could.

“Yeah. Goodnight Isak. Thank you again and sleep tight. Don’t let those bed bugs bite.”

I closed the door and let myself lean back against it. I took a few calming breaths and stumbled for the kitchen where I raided my drinks shelf and plucked out a bottle of Akvavit. I hated the stuff, but wine was just not going to cut it. I was going to pour myself a large measure, but instead I just upended the bottle and downed a large mouthful. It tasted like damp cut grass. Then flames hit my throat, followed by my stomach and finally my head.

What the actual fuck had just happened?


	3. Chapter 3

I sat at the piano and checked that everything was in its place. The beginners’ book and my braille copy, a small bowl of chocolates and an empty notepad. I sometimes used a toy to explain things like posture to children, but I tucked it away on my bookshelf. I didn’t think that Even would appreciate being infantilised. I sat on the stool with my hands on my lap.

I checked the time.

“The time is 18:32.”

I could hear the accusation in her voice. She might have well has said, 

‘The time is 18:32, only 4 minutes since you last asked, you total loser.’

This was not a new phenomenon. Time had been moving excruciatingly slowly all week.

Along with this I was also struggling to concentrate. I had been working on a jingle for a radio advert, apparently ‘Torrfinn’s garage is the only place to go, for a deal that will leave you feeling happy in the snow!’ The music was a total of 45 seconds long, and my colleague had sent the files through on Friday morning. A project like this would usually take me a total of about two days if I were being a perfectionist and give or take a bit of collaboration. It was now Wednesday night, I had been working on it for five days, and it still wasn’t finished.

I couldn’t put my finger on what the issue was, but something was definitely setting me off track.

The buzzer rang.

Even! 

He was early.

At the door he hung up his coat and placed his shoes on the correct shelf.

“Is it ok if I take my bag through?” he asked

“Sure. But let me know where you put it please.”

I could hear him rubbing his hands together.

“I’m a little anxious.” he explained. “I’m not so good at concentrating and learning new things. I’m actually beginning to regret making the appointment.”

“Oh.” I must have sounded dejected.

“Oh my God, not with you. Just the piano playing. I’m really scared that I’m going to fuck it up.”

I could almost hear his teeth chattering with nerves.

I stopped him half-way across the room, and turned to face him.

“Do you trust me?” I asked, my face serious. 

I think he nodded.

“I’m going to need you to use your words 'Even'.” I emphasised his name with a smile.

“Yes, I trust you 'Isak'.” He returned the emphasis.

“Ok then. This is what I do, and I’m pretty good at it. If you fail, it’s because I’ve failed, and I’ve never failed yet.”

He nodded again.

“Even?”

“Yes. Sorry. Shit. I mean Yes, Isak.” He swallowed thickly. “But what if I’m your first failure?”

“Not gonna happen.” I said calmly and pointed to the piano. “Ok, shall we?”

We sat side by side on the bench. Our hips weren’t touching but we were close enough that I could feel the heat of his skin. He was wearing the same fragrance as last week, but this time it was stronger and there was no underlying hint of sweat from his day’s work. He must have had a wash or shower. I forced myself to concentrate on the job in hand. This was important.

“Ok Even. Look at the keyboard. What do you notice about the keys?”

“Erm.”

“There are no wrong answers, just tell me.”

“Well, some are black and some are white.”

“Good. Now, there is a pattern that helps you find your way around the keyboard. Look at them again. What is the pattern?”

“Well, the black ones are split into groups of two and three.”

“Excellent, you’re doing really well.”

I heard him chortle, “Do I get a sweetie now?”

“Not yet. A bit more work to be done first. Ok now, do you see the group of two? This one here is ‘C’. Every time you see a group like that, this one here is ‘C’. Can you point them all out to me?”

Isak heard his nails click on some keys.

“I can’t tell if you’re right unless you press them." I interrupted. "Can you play them for me?”

He huffed an apology. I could feel the nerves as he moved. He reached to the right and the highest ‘C’ and then began working his way down the keyboard. Once he got to middle ‘C’ he had to stretch past me to play the final three. A loose strand of his hair brushed my cheek as he moved.

“That’s really good Even. Can you do it again but using your thumb?” and I showed him what I meant. I leaned up to top ‘C’ and pressed it. I could feel his breath on my neck, almost imperceptibly. He copied me and we moved on.

The rest of the lesson continued in the same vein. Even seemed to settle, but I could still tell that he was very nervous about making a mistake. I showed him how to properly play a C major scale and we played some very repetitive phrases so that he could practice reading the notes from the music. Learning to read a music stave was like reading a whole new language, and it took most people a few lessons to catch on. The last thing we had to do was play the notes he had learned as a tune. It always made the learner feel like the first lesson was a success and they had really achieved something. Which they had!

“Are you ready for your first performance?” I asked as I turned the page.

I could feel his eyes on me, as if they had the power of touch.

“What?” he croaked.

“Come on, you’re doing really well. It’s just 'Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star'.”

“Will you do it with me.”

I nodded, checking on my braille copy how it was laid out. 

“Now fingers on the position.”

I counted him in, and he played it beautifully. All the way through to the end. As the last note died away, he turned to me,

“I don’t know what to say.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have never…” he began but couldn’t seem to finish. His breathing changed.

“Even, are you ok?” I asked.

I could feel him nod and let it pass. He let out a shuddery breath

“I’m not very good at, erm, seeing things through. This is the first thing I have achieved in a long time. Although I know it’s not that much and even 5-year olds can do it.”

The negativity in his tone bothered me,

“Please don’t put yourself down. You did really well, and I’m not just saying that because I like you.” I clipped the last words short; they were out my mouth before my brain had engaged.

“Maybe it’s the teacher.” He nudged my shoulder with his.

I nudged him back. 

“There are no ‘maybes’ about it. But the student was pretty good too.”

He breathed out a faint laugh.

“All you have to do,” I continued, “is practice the fingering for next week, and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ve to do what?” he squeaked.

“Practice the fingering. Like this.” And I showed him a scale.

“Oh.” he laughed. “That could be taken the wrong way.”

I felt my face heat up into a furious blush. To cover it, I reached up for the chocolates and offered him one. 

“Well, you’ve earned this now so, help yourself.” I mumbled.

I couldn’t tell if he had noticed my embarrassing reaction, but he thankfully didn’t mention it.

“I should keep the chocolate for later,” I could hear his pocket rustle, “I haven’t had dinner yet.”

“Oh, I could make you something if you like.”

“Oh no. I wasn’t digging for a repeat of last week. Although it was delicious. I can’t expect you to feed me as well as teach me.”

“It’s no trouble. I haven’t eaten either.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be any trouble.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t wanted you to stay. It was nice to eat in company for a change. What do you fancy?”

“Oh anything? Do you have kebab?” the teasing in his tone was clear.

“No, but I have toasted my own pine nuts.” I batted back.

He snorted a laugh.

“And I suppose you carried a watermelon?”

“Sorry?”

“You know, ‘I carried a watermelon’. It’s what Baby says in Dirty Dancing?”

“The movie? I’ve never seen it. A baby carries a watermelon?”

“You’ve never seen…?” and then he paused. “Sorry. What do I say? You’ve never seen it, Watched it? Viewed it? Do you like movies?”

“Just say seen it. That's fine. And yes, I do like movies. If the audio description is good, it can be fine. Music and soundtrack certainly help. But big action films...not so enjoyable!”

As I moved around the kitchen and prepared a salad with warm goat’s cheese and fresh bread, he just stood watching me and talking about films he liked and how many he had seen. I was really enjoying him watching me as I moved around, but it was making me very self aware.

“I used to think about working in films in some way, but I never quite got round to it,” A twinge of regret in his voice.

As we sat to eat, he announced.

“I have come to a decision. You will teach me piano and I will teach you movies. What do you think?”

“Ok? How?” I asked, my voice unsure.

“Well, on a Wednesday I’ll come here for my piano lessons and on another day, say a Friday, you could come to mine for film lessons.”

“You’re not busy on a Friday night?” I asked tentatively.

“Not really. Are you?”

“Not really?” Tragic but honest.

“It’s a date then. Well, an appointment.” He corrected.

“A plan?” I suggested.

He took a big mouthful of salad and agreed with his mouth full, “It’s a plan!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry. I've had some good news - an editor has responded to a manuscript and this is my first acceptance of a query. I have to work on an edit of 75,000 words. I can't concentrate on a fic as well as a complicated edit. I had this planned as a slow burn with an angsty middle that I could get lost in during lockdown. There was going to be lots more music and loads more of Even, but I'm going to change this into a wee short soft thing instead. I hope that is ok.

We were sitting side by side, not touching but close enough that I could feel all his movements as the movie played, his little shuffles and excited breaths. He was clutching a cushion.

I had arrived at 18:00 promptly and had eaten dinner beforehand as he told me to. Even, however, had made popcorn and bought beers for the screening, as he called it. His flat was small and crowded with furniture at strange angles and boxes or bags in random places.

“I’m sorry about the mess. I thought I’d get away with it because you couldn’t see it. I didn’t think.”

“No, it’s ok. Just give me a hand.”

I asked for his elbow to get me through to the lounge as everything was a trip hazard. I tried to hold on like I would to anyone else guiding me, but just touching the soft inside of his arm made my pulse increase. It was the third time that we had touched on purpose, but I couldn’t tell anything of how he felt. I wasn’t sure how I felt, or at least I wasn’t admitting to it. 

His house smelled of him and his cologne, but also sweet and salty popcorn and a rather chemical air freshener that he must have used before I arrived.

As he organised the movie, he was shuddering with excitement, noticeably different from the anxiety he had emoted at his first piano lesson. I could tell he was eager to show me this film. 

We watched it in mostly silence. Even waited until the last credit had scrolled and the song finished, then clicked the remote and the TV went silent. He turned to me with intent and I could hear the eagerness in his voice.

“Well? What did you think?”

“You mean, did I have the time of my life?” I sniggered.

“Joke about this at your peril, Isak.”

I schooled my face to make it serious. “It was ok.” I admitted.

“Ok? Give me more…”

“Well,” I began carefully. “I liked the soundtrack.”

“Yes?”

“Those were good songs. And some of the jokes were funny.”

“Yes?”

“And… I don’t know what else you want me to say?”

“What about the relationships?”

“Well, it was nice to see the dad come round and be more understanding. And the sister. But it was all a bit sexist and racist, as well as capitalistic.”

“It was the 1960s, Isak.”

“Yeah. I get that. But it is frustrating to hear people being treated badly. And American arrogance annoys me.”

“You didn’t enjoy it then.”

“I did a little. I’m sorry. I don’t really like romantic films.”

“What?” He sounded totally devastated. “How can you not like a love story? What about the passion between Baby and Johnny? Didn’t it feel real to you, but epic at the same time?”

I shrugged.

“But don’t love stories make you think of a time when you were so in love, but it was unrequited and that it hurt like a physical pain. Or perhaps when you were so lost in another person that time passed in strange ways and touching them is all you want to do, and you’d risk anything. Or even when a relationship is over and there is that bittersweet ache of what you had, adding to your life in some way.”

I shrugged again. I could feel heat rising up my neck and the blush starting to colour my face. I didn’t want to tell him. He would think I was a total loser.

The silence was awkward.

“I’ve, eh, I’ve never been in a relationship. Not like that anyway.”

The silence stretched.

I could feel my head starting to drop. I was ashamed, 

“You must think I’m a total loser. I know I do.” 

I shouldn’t have told him.

“I don’t think you’re a loser.” His voice was excruciatingly tender.

The tip of one of his fingers softly touched my chin and he lifted my head. I exhaled the breath I had been holding. He waited.  
“When I was at school, I fell in love with my straight best friend, but then I started to lose my eyesight and other things became more important. He is still my best friend, I never told him, and now he is busy with his own family and we don’t see so much of each other anymore.”

He was still touching my chin, his thumb began stroking my cheek. It was almost overwhelming.

“My Mama was really ill for a while and I had to look after her. When she got better she met a lovely guy, Jens, and they got married. I was so happy for her. I moved into a flatshare for a while and then my own place. I was just working up the courage to get back out there when they were both killed in a random road accident. A drunk driver went through a red light and smashed their car. Jens died immediately but Mama held on in intensive care for a few weeks until her heart gave out.”

“Oh Isak, I’m so sorry. That's awful. I'm so sorry.” he repeated.

“And then, I don’t know. Time has just passed. It was hard enough knowing I was gay, but blind as well? People don’t really look at me like that. The world seems to think that people with a disability aren’t like that.”

“Like what?

“Sexual.”

He hummed, “Did you not try an app or anything.”

I shrugged again. This was so difficult. I couldn’t believe I was telling him, but I didn’t want to stop.

“Yes, I did. But no one wanted to meet up with me once they realised I had a disability – apart from one who had a blind guy fetish. That wasn’t really for me.”

And then his whole palm was caressing my cheek. I leaned into it. I couldn’t have pulled away for all the money in the world.

“It’s a long time since anyone touched me, like they were meaning to. Not by accident.” I whispered.

“You are very beautiful Isak. I like you a lot. You’re so talented and clever and honest and brave and beautiful.”

“You said beautiful twice.”

He took his hand away from my face and laughed, “Then it must be true.”

“What do you look like?” I asked. “Describe yourself.”

He breathed in, “I saw a movie once where the girl who was blind used to see people by touch. Is that a thing? Is it true?”

“I’ve never tried.” I admitted. "I knew what Mama and Jonas - my friend - looked like and I wouldn't do something so intimate with a co-worker or pupil."

He reached out and took my right hand, put it to his head then let go.

“Let's try. Ok? My hair is a dark kind of blond colour. It was lighter when I was a child – almost white.”

I let my fingertips touch his hair. Then I sunk my fingers in until it flowed in my palm. It was long, flopping down over his forehead and curling behind his ears but at the back it was cut close. Short and stubbly.

His ears were small and neat, an earring in each.

“You’ve got two earrings.”

He nodded.

His neck was long and slender. The tendons and muslces standing out. As i let my hands fall I could feel that he was wearing a formal shirt in a silky material, and some kind of cravat or scarf. 

“You got dressed up for our appointment.” I smiled. “What’s that?”

There was a small pin attached to his lapel.

“It’s a pan flag pin.”

“I don’t know what that is.”

“Well, pansexual is when you’re attracted to the person, not their gender.”

“I know what pansexual is, idiot. I meant the flag. What colours are in it?”

“Oh, shit, sorry. Its erm, pink, yellow and blue.”

I pulled my hand away from his shirt and hovered them in the air.

“May I touch your face?”

His skin was soft to my touch, his bones clear and solid under the surface. His brow was strong, and his eyes fluttered shut as I reached them. There were laughter lines around them. His cheeks felt smooth. His chin was almost square with a delightful cleft in the middle. I paused as I reached his mouth, but he turned his head until my fingers brushed across his lips.

I dropped my hands slowly.

“I think you are very beautiful as well.”

My heart was racing, overwhelmed by the physical contact. I told him so. He picked up my hand and put it over his own heart, it thumped clearly below his skin. I smiled at him.

"May I look at you in the same way? with my hands?"

"Oh." Did I gasp out loud?

"It's ok of you don't want me to."

It was all I wanted. He followed the same pattern as I had: hair, ears, neck, clothes and then face. He spent a long time running his fingers down my nose and across my lips.

"This dip here, in your top lip. I have been looking at it every time we meet." he sighed and let his hands fall.

"What do we do now?"

I asked, knowing what I wanted the answer to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for all the supportive comments. God, I love reading all your works and its such an honour to be a part of this community.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well? What did you think?” Even asked. It was exactly one week later, almost to the hour.

“You mean, did I have the time of my life?” I sniggered. We were sprawled on his couch.

“That’s not funny, Isak.”

“Well you asked the same question as last week. Can’t I give the same answer.”

“No. This is important.”

“I thought Dirty Dancing was important.”

“This is more important.”

“Well, it was sloppier than I was expecting, and hotter and way messier. And what is that funny after taste?”

“There was no ‘funny taste’. That’s just what it tastes like.”

I could feel him looking at me.

“Would you want it again?”

“Well, maybe not once a week, but perhaps we could have it just once a month? Try other fast food instead?”

I could feel him lean into my space, his face in front of mine, his lips tantalisingly close.

“OK, kebabs are not for you. You smell of garlic.” 

I laughed.

“So do you.” And he leaned in and kissed my greasy lips with his greasy lips. 

“That’s the secret of fast food.” He pulled back. “You have to share it with someone you love.”

____

It had been the most unusual and most excellent week of my life. Was it really only seven days ago when everything had changed?

Watching the movie with Even, and then telling him my pathetic past and listening to him accepting it, accepting me was something that I never thought would have happened. It was overwhelming.

“What do we do now?” I had asked. 

I meant every word. I was at a loss. My heart was pounding in my throat and I could feel all the sensations of Even in my fingertips still, his soft hair, his smooth skin, his velvet lips. His own hands were resting in his lap, or were they still touching my top lip?

“I think we should kiss.” he suggested seriously. It made me smile.

“I think so to.”

I leaned towards him and let him meet me halfway. His lips were lush, plump and warm, tasting of popcorn and beer. He settled, the only contact between us was our mouths. Then he started moving and I thought I would faint. The delicate contacts of those soft lips were some of the most intense touches I have ever experienced. I heard myself groan as he opened his mouth and let his tongue lick the dip in my top lip that he had admired. I copied his actions and he made the most delightful noises in response, moans and sighs that remain as some of my best memories. It was only about our two mouths, our two sets of lips, our two tongues, exploring and learning, tasting and touching, touching, touching.

He pulled back, panting and lifted his hand to my chin. My own breath was heavy.

“Isak, I am inordinately turned on by kissing you. I am trying my best to show some self-control, but it is extremely difficult. You taste so good. You feel so good.”

And then I was crying. From nowhere I had fat tears welling up in my eyes and running down my cheeks in hot streams.

“Oh my God, oh my God.” He muttered repeatedly, “Isak are you ok, Isak are you ok? I wouldn’t hurt you, I promise.”

I couldn’t speak, the words were stuck in my throat. I tried to reassure him by reaching out. I managed to get in touch with his upper arm and he covered my hand with his own and then clasped it in both of his.

“What’s wrong?”

I shook my head, trying to dislodge the words.

“It’s all…it’s just so… so much. I didn’t expect...” the words tumbled out in a mess.

“In a good way?” He asked, his voice brittle with concern.

I sputtered a laugh, “Yes, in a very good way.”

At that he pulled me across, until I was sitting half in his lap, wrapped tightly in his arms. He rocked me and hugged me, the whole time stroking my back and neck and shoulder and whispering nonsense words of concern. The tears kept up their presence for a while longer until I needed to find a tissue before it became disgusting.

I blew my nose loudly, 

“Can I stay here tonight?”

“Of course. I can make up the couch for myself. It’s no problem.”

“Even, don’t be silly. I’ll be sleeping in your bed and you will be sleeping right next to me, doing some more of that touching and kissing and stroking that quite frankly is the best thing that I have ever experienced.”

I could hear his smile.

I don’t remember falling asleep, but I do remember in the night waking up sweating, wrapped up in an Even burrito. I had no plans on moving.

In the morning we made love for the first time. Like the kissing, it began slowly and tenderly but swiftly the intensity rolled in, and this time I was prepared. I didn’t let it overwhelm me but accepted it and handed it back to this remarkable man with all the passion in my bones. His skin was hot silk under my touch, and feeling his responses were as addictive as any drug. I found I could coax movements and noises from him that were intoxicating. He tasted sweet and salty, changing with the intensity of his feelings. But the most surprising thing was his smell. Aromas that I imagined would be repulsive, or at least off putting, were delectable to me. I spent far too long in the musk of his armpit which only added to my arousal. In the climax of our movements, the aroma changed suddenly to something I had never smelled before. I now think of it as the scent of our love.

As we lay together afterwards, I knew we should tidy up, but I didn’t want to move. I said so. He laughed that deep rumble and said,

“It’s Saturday, we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to. Unless you have a lesson…”

I shook my head, 

“I cancelled it.”

Even sat up rigidly and looked at me,

“Isak Valtersen, did you think that I was a sure thing?”

I blushed and hid my face in his stomach. He pulled my face up to head height and kissed me sloppily. He leaned back and whispered directly into the whorl of my ear, 

“I was a sure thing for you from the moment you told me that you toasted your own pine nuts.”

“Yeah, does my cooking do things to you?” I giggled

“No, just your toasted nuts.”

___

After a shower unlike any I have ever experienced before, we went out for breakfast, or rather brunch by the time we got there. I wanted to cook for him, but he said that we had all the time in the world for that and he wanted to treat me to my favourite food without any effort on my part.

“I want to take you to a proper restaurant where we will sit down,” he laughed.

We ended up in a little bakery that I loved. I sipped my coffee with my left hand. It was a little wobbly but my right hand was being held by Even on the table. I couldn’t help but turn to him.

“I am so glad you chose me as your piano teacher.”

“So am I.”

“I am so glad you are in my life.” I squeezed his hand, “You’re not going anywhere are you?”

He leaned over and kissed the pastry crumbs off my lips.

“I paid for ten lessons and I’ve only had two, so you have me for eight more weeks.”

“At least.” I added.

“At least.” And he kissed me again.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has been so short and rather fluffy.
> 
> I hope you are all well and in these unusual 'lockdown' times.

“You ready?” Even asked.

I nodded. 

He held out his elbow, I took hold and he walked with me to the centre of the small stage. Ostensibly as my guide, but I didn’t really need him to do it. I had been pacing the place all afternoon and knew the distances well enough by now. However, in the year I had known him, there was never a time when I declined having Even by my side. That being said, he unpeeled my hand, kissed my cheek and left.

The stage lights were hot on my face and I began to sweat. I was just wondering how to get the crowd’s notice when they saw me standing there and began to settle.

“Good evening everyone.” 

I paused and waited for their full attention.

“Good evening everyone, my name is Isak Valtersen. Tonight is a very special event. It is the first ever concert of the ‘Make a Noise’ Children’s Music Therapy charity.”

At this there was a spontaneous ripple of applause.

“I have the real pleasure of being one of the adult volunteers with the children who use this group. ‘Make a Noise’ is a place for them to access music to support them with many different issues, ranging from sensory impairments like my own, to physical difficulties or mental conditions. The one thing that we all have in common, however, is the music is a safe place for us to be ourselves and sometimes heal a little.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

“Tonight’s’ line-up is made of performers and their tutors from all the different groups who have been practicing very hard to give you their best. As you can see from your programme, it is a long and varied list and so I will stop talking and introduce our first act. With their rousing performance of ‘Tequila Beat’ I give you the Samba Band.”

I turned and walked steadily to the side of the stage where I was met by Even who gave me a tight hug and whispered in my ear.

“You were great. I’ve got us some seats in the wings so you can watch in between your performances.”

The first half continued without any serious mistakes. A few of the kids were nervous and dropped a drumstick or missed a note, but overall, the audience was charmed. We sold raffle tickets and snacks at the interval and before I knew it, we were ready for the finale. I had been working on this for months, and each group had been practicing their own part. We had only managed one full rehearsal, but I hoped it would be fine.

After a bit of fuss, everyone was arranged on the stage and Even and I sat side by side on the piano stool, just like our first lesson over twelve months ago – only this time his touch was familiar and brought me peace. Thankfully, he still smelled of his spicy cologne. 

“Are ‘you’ ready this time?” I whispered.

He nodded, “No...”

“Too bad.” I answered sternly but with a smile, “Ok, hands on first position.”

He placed his hands.

I counted to four and Even began his solo, a simple rendition of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star, playing with both hands. I could feel my chest swell with pride for him. It could not be overstated how huge a moment this was. As he finished the last line and just before the audience began to clap, I shouted out a faster count, to a swing beat and the whole group joined in. It was my own arrangement and gave each of them a little moment of glory to show off their music skills.

As each stood up to do their bit the audience whooped and hollered, each family proud of their own child. It was a great thing to be part of and each of them was amazing. It ended with a huge crescendo, and the audience were on their feet cheering and clapping and shouting out names. 

“What are the kid’s faces like?” I shouted to Even

“Biggest smiles ever!”

The applause went on for a long time and I was just about to start to move everyone off the stage when I felt Even stand up next to me and face the crowd.

They settled to silence.

“Hi everyone. We need to finish the night with some ‘thank yous’.”

It took me by surprise, he hated public speaking. His voice was shaky, and I could hear he was nervous. 

“First to you all - Thank you very much to all of you for coming tonight and helping to raise funds for this wonderful charity.”

There was polite clapping.

“Secondly, thank you to the children themselves for all their hard work and rehearsing – which I’m sure you heard! I think you can all agree that the children have done themselves proud tonight.”

This time the applause was much louder.

“And finally, I’d like to thank the organiser of tonight’s concert - Isak Valtersen. I was introduced to music by Isak, and he has changed my life. Piano is the first thing that I have ever seen through, stuck with. I have bipolar condition and it can make life difficult sometimes. It’s why we decided to volunteer at ‘Make a Noise’. I want to...”

He turned to me and made me stand up and held my hand. He looked at me I think, but the silence became too long. He was vibrating with energy. I was just about to say something to break the awkwardness when he whispered,

“Can I do it later?”

“Yes. Whatever it is, you can do it later.” I spoke for his ears only. His hand was gripping mine like a vice. "It's fine."

I turned to the audience, “Thank you very much for coming and goodnight.” 

I turned back to him and kissed him gently, causing all the kids to whoop, whistle and make gagging noises.

I don’t remember much after that. There was much hugging and congratulations. The kids were overly excited but also exhausted. It felt like hours until we made it home.

We stood at the front door, hanging up coats and putting our shoes on the shelf. I wanted to say something, but I felt it wasn’t my place. The silence was excruciating.

“Do you want something to eat or drink?” I asked eventually.

He hummed a 'no' and strode off to the living room. It sounded like he was pacing.

“Even is something wrong?” I walked through. “You know you were great tonight? I was so proud of you. Two hands, four lines of music. It was amazing!”

“Isak,” he blurted out, “I really wanted to ask you to marry me, in front of everyone, like a grand gesture. But I was totally terrified that I’d make a mess of it, so I chickened out. I’m such a coward.”

I couldn’t help but smile. In fact, my whole face lit up in a grin.

“Ok, then. Why don’t we sit down, and you can hold my hand and we’ll see how it goes? Just the two of us.”

“Can we sit at the piano?”

“Of course.”

We slid in beside each other, hips touching, and he took my hand. Despite having just come in from the cold his hand was hot and clammy. I could hear him swallow.

“Isak, will you marry me?”

“Well, it is a bit of a surprise,” I giggled, “But, yes Even, I will marry you.”

I heard him let out a shaky breath and peck my lips ever so tenderly. 

We quietly got ready for bed and as I slid under the covers, I knew that I was in the place that I wanted to be. Wrapped in Even, smelling his skin, tasting his lips and listening to his heartbeat. Touching him had brought me my truth and I would be forever grateful for the day that Even Bech Næsheim walked into my apartment and into my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Touch comes before sight, before speech. It is the first language and the last, and it always tells the truth.” Margaret Atwood
> 
> Thank you for reading. I mean it. It always amazes me that anyone does.


End file.
